Hidden Hobbies
by pulpbomb
Summary: Four times Sherlock secretly heard Lestrade singing show tunes and the one time he made his presence known. Prompt fill. Fluff & angst! Mostly fluff! Sherstrade.


Prompt from **tempestwakener**: _Singing show tunes is one of Lestrade's guilty pleasures. He has a lovely voice, but only sings when he thinks no one can hear him. Sherlock has been secretly catching him at it for years and lets it slip while trying to convince Lestrade of his feelings for him._

_Summary: Four times Sherlock secretly heard Lestrade singing show tunes and the one time he let his presence be known. _

**One**

Sherlock was careful to ease the door shut behind him, barely a sound escaping as it latched closed. He turned in the darkened flat, hearing the sound of rushing water and realized that his stealth was for naught, Lestrade was in the shower. Ah well, it was always good practice. Now where would Lestrade have left that file?

As he searched the flat with his penlight, listening carefully for the sound of the shower turning off, he became frustrated that the file wasn't in the sitting room where Lestrade usually went over files he brought him with him. He made his way further into the flat, sliding into Lestrade's bedroom where the DI was showering in the en suite.

Cocking his head, Sherlock realized he could hear Lestrade's voice over the sound of the shower. Did Lestrade often speak to himself while bathing? But, no, that wasn't the tempo or tenor of the man's speaking voice. He was … singing?

Sherlock crept close to the bathroom door and pressed his ear against the thin wood. Now he could make out the words Lestrade was singing, but they made no sense. They were more like gibberish. Lestrade's voice rang out clearly through the wood.

"Moses supposes his toeses are Roses, but Moses supposes erroneously, Moses he knowses his toeses aren't roses, as Moses supposes his toeses to be!"

Sherlock pulled back and stared at the door as though it would help him understand the nonsense lyrics. Dear God? Had Lestrade had a stroke? Should he rush in, begin to administer first aid? He should've made John come along, but for all that his friend had been a soldier he was crap at breaking and entering. But no, the words made no sense but they weren't slurred. This must be an actual song. Sherlock heard the shower cut off and he turned to leave the room, case file forgotten.

Lestrade's voice continued to ring out, echoing in the small room. "A mose is a mose! A rose is a rose! A toes is a toes!"

Sherlock shook his head and fled the flat.

**Two**

Years later, Sherlock had all but forgotten the incident with the singing DI.

It was again the middle of the night and he was heading towards Lestrade's office. He'd seen the older man that afternoon at a crime scene and had noticed that Lestrade seemed distracted, less quick to smile. Not that the DI often grinned at crime scenes but Sherlock usually managed to eek out a quick flash of teeth from the other man with his usual comments and behavior. He wasn't certain why but Lestrade's behavior that day had stayed with him after he left the crime scene.

Later, after he'd solved the crime and texted Lestrade the culprit's identity, Sherlock settled into his thinking pose on the couch. He reviewed his recent interactions with Lestrade. He was frustrated to realize that he'd missed something somehow. He always missed something! Something was definitely going on with Lestrade and had been for some time. Sherlock was certain of it. The detective went over Lestrade's recent behavior and concluded the man was most definitely acting more subdued lately, almost depressed.

This was not on.

Sherlock needed the man at his peak performance, he couldn't work with the other Detective Inspectors at the Yard. Dimmock was alright but far too eager to please and kowtowed to Sherlock. Which, admittedly was flattering at first but now was simply irritating. He got enough praise from John, he didn't need Dimmock simpering after him. DI Gregson was an arrogant sod who refused to consult with Sherlock but Lestrade… Lestrade challenged him. The older man never let him run roughshod over his team or his crime scenes but did let Sherlock do his work. Lestrade helped Sherlock and Sherlock helped Lestrade. Their's was delicate partnership and Lestrade's behavior was unsettling Sherlock. Thus his decision to confront Lestrade after hours where he could be sure to have time to ferret out what was going on with the older man.

He bypassed the lift and took the stairs, lightly jogging to the fourth floor where the Major Crimes department was located. Sherlock exited the stairwell and made his way past the empty cubicles. No one was there as he had planned, the only sources of light on the floor came from the low emergency lights and far ahead the doorway to Lestrade's office.

Sherlock strode confidently across the floor, pondering how best to broach the topic with Lestrade. Normally, he'd storm in and demand an explanation. Yet… maybe a gentle approach would be best, after all, Lestrade had been… off … for quite some time and didn't mention his issue/problem/illness/? to the consulting detective any of the dozen times they'd seen each other lately. Yes, a delicate touch was required here. Surely Lestrade knew he could trust Sherlock. Sherlock did, after all, 'die' for him. Wait, did Lestrade know that? He must.

His steps slowed. Someone was singing softly.

The words were indistinct at this distance but Sherlock immediately recalled the incident at Lestrade's flat and knew that once again he'd discovered Lestrade singing by himself. A grin played across his handsome face. Perhaps if he were to stumble upon Lestrade singing, he could use the humor of the situation to his advantage and get the stubborn DI to open up to him.

He softened his steps and moved into the shadows, creeping towards Lestrade's office and his open door. As he grew closer and heard the tone of Lestrade's singing, the smile slid off his face. As before, he didn't know the song but it served to illustrate Sherlock's point: something was most definitely off with the good detective inspector.

"Cellophane, Mister Cellophane. Shoulda been my name, Mister Cellophane. 'Cause you look right through me, walk right by me, and never know I'm there…"

Still a few feet from the door and hugging the wall, Sherlock stopped. Lestrade's voice sounded so plaintive. What on earth could cause him to sound like that?

"I tell ya, cellophane, Mister Cellophane. Shoulda been my name, Mister Cellophane. 'Cause you look right through me, walk right by me, and never know I'm there. Never even know I'm there."

Lestrade was sad? Was that the issue? It must be. But. Why was Lestrade sad? The desk lamp turned off and Sherlock could hear the sounds of Lestrade neatening his office and gathering his belongings to leave. Sherlock decided not to confront the other man after this new development. Sherlock raced across the floor back to the stairwell and was through the door before he heard the faint sounds of Lestrade locking his office door.

**Three**

Two weeks after hearing Lestrade's sad warblings in his office, Sherlock had not had a chance to approach the other man about whatever was bothering him. He'd had a private case that had taken him to the north of England along with John, which had not pleased his best friend or his very pregnant wife, Mary. Sherlock had promised to have the doctor home before the baby's due date and was pleased with having fulfilled said promise. The case was solved, the check was deposited and John was home with his expectant wife. Life had returned to normal and with copious amounts of free time, Sherlock had once more turned to the mystery of what was bothering Lestrade.

A glance through his mobile showed he'd missed numerous texts from Lestrade while he was away, all relating to cases the Yard requested his assistance in solving. Had he not informed Lestrade he'd be away on a private case? He didn't even recall ignoring the texts when they arrived but he often gave little regard to matters not relevant to the immediate case which occupied his attention.

Recalling the lyrics to the song Lestrade had been singing in his office, Sherlock had taken to the internet. He decided, after reading the lyrics and the story associated with the song, Mister Cellophane, that perhaps Lestrade was unhappy with his lot in life. Of course, maybe everything was fine and Lestrade simply liked that particular song. Sherlock had also looked up the song he'd heard Lestrade singing years ago and it was a veritable nonsense poem set to verse from a popular movie musical.

Sherlock determined after reading dozens of webpages that Lestrade had been in a good mood when first Sherlock caught him singing in the shower about roses and toes. If he had his dates right, Lestrade had wrapped up a string of robberies around the time that Sherlock had broken into his flat and had received a commendation from his superiors. The timing and the song all indicated a happy man.

That was not the case of the most recent event. Sherlock knew Lestrade had been unhappy; well he knew that now. He'd suspected before but had five alternative scenarios in mind including serious illness when he'd gone to the Yard that night to confront Lestrade. Hearing the sad tune sung in a very sad voice had shot the "Lestrade is unhappy" option to the top of the list. Yes, very good, Sherlock. A man sings a sad song and you immediately infer the man is sad. Jolly good show, old bean. He could practically hear Mycroft's voice in his head. More data was obviously required to be certain that this was simply a case of the blues as they put it in the vernacular.

Sherlock checked his watch and decided to go visit the man himself. More observation required and all that. He knew Lestrade had the day off and would likely be at home. Thirty minutes later found him approaching the door to Lestrade's flat. Again, he heard the man singing, this time through the closed door. Good Lord, did the man sing constantly? Perhaps Sherlock was simply inordinately good at catching him in the act? He paused outside the door, picked up a newspaper lying on the ground to make himself look occupied and not like he was simply eavesdropping and proceeded to eavesdrop.

"On my own, pretending he's beside me, all alone, I walk with him 'til morning… Without him, I feel his arms around me, and when I lose my way I close my eyes and he has found me…"

Suddenly the singing stopped and Sherlock made to look as though he was about to knock in case Lestrade opened the door. Nothing happened. He listened intently and heard … nothing. No, wait, there was a sound. It sounded like… Weeping? Lestrade was weeping? He heard what sounded like a stifled sob and abruptly turned and left.

Back at home, safely ensconced on his sofa, Sherlock reviewed the facts once more. Had Lestrade recently ended a relationship? His divorce was finalized while Sherlock was away. Lestrade was a very attractive man so it's entirely possible and reasonable to conclude Lestrade had become involved with someone else, a man if the song was a literal declaration of his feelings and not merely a sad song, that without being gender specific, expressed his heartache. Hmm. Wait, when did he start thinking of Lestrade as a 'very attractive man'? Sherlock thought back. Always, if he was honest with himself, and he usually was.

Opening his laptop, he entered the lyrics he's just heard Lestrade singing and read about the song On My Own. It was from a musical, again. Lestrade must be enamored of theatrical and movie musicals if his tendency to sing them whilst alone was any indicator. He knew Lestrade had a deep abiding love of what he called 'punk rock' so this was a new aspect for Lestrade's already multi-layered personality. After reading about the song and it's context, Sherlock put aside his computer and began to review and catalogue his observations.

Sherlock frowned. Lestrade was upset over a relationship, most likely romantic, that ended. But there were no indicators that Lestrade had been involved with anyone lately. Thinking back to the song Mister Cellophane and the information he'd gleaned from the internet thus far. He concluded that Lestrade was pining for someone. Someone other than Sherlock.

Wait, what?

Where did that come from? Sherlock had no time for romantic entanglements. He held himself above that sort of thing. So why was he bothered by the idea that Lestrade wanted someone other than himself. Sherlock flounced about on the sofa and turned to bury his face in the cushions.

Put a pin in that. Focus on Lestrade's recent behavior and determine who was causing the older man to sound so forlorn when he was alone singing to himself. Only then could he determine a way to lighten the other man's mood.

**Four**

Sherlock spent the next two weeks intently watching Lestrade and making note of his behavior. To the point where Lestrade noticed Sherlock's keen attention at a crime scene and called him on it.

"Do I have something on my face? Mustard from my lunch? What? You're staring, Sherlock."

Sherlock insulted him and the intelligence of his team and fled. Time to come up with a strategy.

He decided he would do whatever it took to raise Lestrade's spirits. He realized the most recent occasions he'd come across Lestrade singing to himself was after less than pleasant interactions with Sherlock. The detective could admit his behavior could be construed poorly at times… Okay, often, his behavior was _often_ abysmal towards others but that was just his way.

Surely Lestrade knew not to take that personally, didn't he? No, strike that, obviously he didn't, because upon further reflection Sherlock realized that each time immediately prior to his discovering Lestrade singing sad songs to himself, Sherlock had dismissed the older man and/or his theories as incorrect.

But that didn't _always_ happen. Lestrade often made helpful observations or made note of things Sherlock didn't or couldn't observe. Didn't Lestrade know that his loyalty and unwavering support of Sherlock was integral to the consultive detective's methods and ability to solve a case?

Sherlock sat up in sudden realization. Lestrade didn't know anything of the sort. It was Sherlock that was causing Lestrade to sink into depression and melancholy and thus sing sad songs to himself whilst alone.

Oh God. Stupid. Stupid Sherlock.

_He_ was the cause of the problem affecting Lestrade. Well, if that were the case, then he could just as easily be the solution.

A week later, Sherlock realized he was making no headway towards rising Lestrade's spirits or even just getting the man to realize how much Sherlock valued him. His compliments were taken as sarcastic and his innuendoes landed as though each was tied to a brick and dropped from a tall building. Ooh, let's not go there Sherlock. In fact, mental note, never say something like that out loud. The goldfish won't like it.

That night he sat in his chair, sulking and drinking scotch. He wasn't entirely certain where the scotch came from. It was a very nice bottle and it tasted good. When John lived at 221B, he'd kept scotch but it was awful, tasted like nail varnish remover. This was lovely. It went down his throat smoothly and made his entire body feel warm. Talisker was what the label said. He wondered where it came from. He was happy to have it.

He had another glass. He had no idea how to proceed with the Cheer Up Lestrade plan. His Flirt with Lestrade plan was not going well at all. He seemed to be making Lestrade grumpier instead of happier.

God, he was really terrible at this flirting thing, he mused. When he needed to flirt for a case, things went swimmingly, but when he actually meant it, everything went tits up.

Heh, tits up. That's a funny phrase.

Was he drunk? The last time he was drunk was John's stag do. This felt similar only instead of being happy and laughing, he was exceptionally sad and his face was wet? He touched his face with the tips of his fingers. He was crying. Brilliant, he was crying. He was a weepy drunk. Lovely. He wiped his face dry.

It was too quiet in the flat. He grabbed a remote and switched on the telly. Some band was playing a live show. A concert film? No, there was that man with the funny name. Jools something. He seemed to recall John watching this program occasionally, it featured live music. Obviously it featured live music, there was a band playing on screen right now.

He was beginning to recall why he didn't drink often. His usually lightning fast thoughts slowed to the pace of molasses and he became rather average. Well, above average. Still smarter than most.

He watched the TV and listened to the music. He liked this song. It wasn't what he normally listened to, but the lyrics were catchy and some of them reminded him of Lestrade. He decided that was something Lestrade needed to know. He snatched up his mobile and composed and sent a text.

**HOT AS A FEVER. SH**

His phone chimed a few moments later. He looked at his blearily. The words swam a bit but if he squinted he could focus. Oh good! It was a text from Lestrade.

**What? Are you sick? GL**

Idiot. Of course he wasn't sick. As usual, Lestrade failed to see what was right in front of him. Sherlock was going to have to draw him a diagram one day. He typed a reply.

**No. Idiot. YOUR SEX IS ON FIRE. SH**

There. That was clearer. Even Lestrade would understand that. What an odd song. But truly Lestrade did embody fiery sex. The man was ridiculously good looking. Especially when he smiled. He didn't smile as much anymore.

It took longer for Lestrade to answer this time. He had another glass of scotch.

**Um. Thank you? Stop drinking and sleep it off, sunshine. GL**

**Yourwelcome. Not tred. Very god scotch. I love scotch. Youve got a symmetrical face. SH**

**Are you flirting with me?! GL**

**Yes! Finally! Py attention! Been flirting for eonsss! God, its like taking to a brick wall with you sometimes.** **SL**

**And back to insults. Seriously. Go to sleep. You're not making any sense. GL**

Sherlock didn't receive the text until the next morning. He'd passed out in his chair and woke up aching all over with a terrible crick in his neck. It felt like his tongue had swollen and been covered in sand paper.

After tea, a shower and some paracetemol for his pounding head he glanced at his phone. He saw the last text from Lestrade and frowned, reviewing the messages they'd sent back and forth.

Oh bloody hell. He drunk texted Lestrade and made a complete ass of himself. Fantastic. He couldn't deal with this right now, he went to his room to sleep off his headache.

For the next week, Sherlock put all his Lestrade based plans on hold and decided to regroup. He did his level best to avoid Lestrade. He failed miserably.

The criminals of London were extra busy that week. So the DI made it impossible to avoid him by calling Sherlock to three crime scenes in seven days. And Sherlock went when summoned, lured by the dual desires to solve crimes and see Lestrade. He flushed each time Lestrade looked towards him and gave his conclusions in a rush before fleeing back to Baker Street.

After endless hours lying on his sofa, sulking and thinking, Sherlock decided that he'd been hiding long enough. He needed to see Lestrade. He rushed to his room and got dressed. Once he'd fastened his watch on his wrist, he realized it was dark out and rather late. Reviewing Lestrade's schedule in the wing of his mind palace dedicated to the older man, Sherlock determined Lestrade was most likely still at the office, working long after everyone else had gone home. He snatched up his coat and scarf and left the flat, heading to New Scotland Yard.

Exiting the stairwell and making his way across the floor towards Lestrade's office gave Sherlock a sense of deja vu. Completing the eerie feeling was the sound of Lestrade's voice wafting across the open space.

Good Lord, the man was singing again! Was it some sort of compulsion? Was he sad again? Oh shit, Sherlock, you made him worse! Bloody well done.

He stood stock still, listening.

"Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime, let me lead you from your solitude, say you need me with you here, beside you, anywhere you go let me go too, Sherlock, that's all I ask of you."

Sherlock was stunned. Lestrade was singing a love song to him?! He slipped back towards the stairwell in silence and entered the men's room, pulling out his phone and entering the lyrics in the search engine. He reviewed the lyrics for the song All I Ask of You. A duet between lovers, from the lyrics it seems they were coming together for the first time.

An idea popped into his head. He scrolled through countless love songs, reading lyrics, considering and dismissing song after song.

He found a song he felt would work for what he wanted to do, bought the song and downloaded it onto his phone.

_Perfect_.

**Five**

Sherlock had fled NSY after coming up with a cunning plan to reveal his feelings for Lestrade and went home to determine precisely the perfect moment to spring said plan on the oblivious, unsuspecting, adorable, unbearably sexy DI.

The perfect moment never arose.

It was infuriating.

If Sherlock believed in luck or a higher power, he would say that the universe was conspiring against him.

Finally, Sherlock decided to hell with the universe and its attempts to keep the two men apart. Real men made their own luck, he seemed to recall someone saying something along those lines.

Gah, this waiting was intolerable! Sod it all. He was going to see Lestrade. Right now.

Sherlock stealthily broke into Lestrade's flat. It was evening but not so late that Lestrade would be in bed. He'd worked a series of long days on a case which was so easy even the Met could solve and so Sherlock had not had an excuse to see the DI again. Not that he needed an excuse but he had something planned and wanted it to be perfect. Now he was too impatient to wait any longer - thus the breaking and entering.

The entrance hall and sitting room were dimly lit and the sounds of the shower came from the depths of the flat. Looking around, Sherlock deduced he'd only recently arrived home. Lestrade's clothes were strewn along the hall towards his bedroom and bath. He decided to wait in the sitting room where Lestrade had turned on the telly before heading to shower, obviously intending to unwind with some mindless entertainment. And if the older man simply fell asleep, Sherlock would kip on the sofa and enact his plan in the morning.

Sherlock sat on Lestrade's sofa after removing his coat & scarf. From the back of the flat, he heard Lestrade's beautiful singing voice. Sherlock had to admit now that he loved hearing the other man sing, no matter the reason. His voice was rough with age and years of smoking but his emotions always shone through and each song extremely pleasing to Sherlock's ear. Which was a feat as he had perfect pitch and usually could only stand to listen to professionally performed classical music. He supposed it was a sign of his regard and the depths of his affection for the DI.

Straining a bit, he could just make out the words of the song Lestrade sung, the sound becoming clearer as the other man shut off the running water.

"… Let me worthy of your love, I'll find a way to earn your love, wait and see, then you will turn your love to me, your love to me."

Sherlock heard Lestrade rummage around in his bedroom, opening and closing drawers, softly humming the tune he'd been singing. After a few moments, Lestrade emerged from his bedroom, walking along the hall, stooping to pick up up his scattered clothing.

"Lestrade."

Sherlock's normally deep voice came out as more of a croak. Lestrade froze and craned his neck to see into the sitting room. He stood up quickly and clutched his dirty clothing to his chest.

"Jesus Brian Christ, Sherlock, you nearly gave me a bloody heart attack." He entered the sitting room proper and glared at the younger man.

"Hardly. Despite your age and vices, smoking and occasionally drinking to excess, you are in exceedingly good shape. I'm sure your heart is just fine." Sherlock shifted in his seat as he spoke and twirled his phone between his fingers in a nervous manner.

"Right. There might've been a compliment in there somewhere." Lestrade smirked and walked over to his favorite armchair, moving aside Sherlock's coat so he didn't crush it where it lay. He sat and dumped his laundry onto the floor next to him. "So, why are you here? What do you want?"

Sherlock visibly steeled himself and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You. I want you."

Lestrade's face paled and he gave an abortive laugh. "That's not funny, Sherlock. That's low, even for you. Get out."

He made to stand to forcibly remove Sherlock who showed no signs of leaving when the younger man blurted out, "Wait. Lestrade. Hear me out. Please. If, after I've said my piece, you still want me to leave, I will and we will never discuss this again. If that's what you want. Just … listen to me."

Sherlock held his hands out in front of him, palms splayed in a placating gesture. One made slightly less effective by the iron grip he held on his mobile in one hand. So one palm splayed.

Still, Lestrade stayed sitting and the consulting detective took that as a good sign.

Sherlock stayed in his seat as well, even though he desperately wanted to get up and pace while he spoke. But he didn't want Lestrade to feel threatened or uneasy (well, _uneasier_) as he listened to Sherlock's pleas.

"Lestrade… Um… Greg." Lestrade raised an eyebrow at the use of his proper given name but remained silent.

Sherlock plowed on, "I had a whole speech prepared but I can't seem to recall any of it." He took a deep breath and the words raced out of his mouth at breakneck speed. "So, er, the thing is — I've — well, I've heard you singing to yourself on a number of occasions and it's lead me to believe that you have feelings for me —"

Greg opened his mouth to speak as two rosy blooms of color appeared on his cheeks.

"You what—?" He sputtered.

Sherlock spoke over him, barreling on, "— romantic feelings, that is, and I wanted to express myself to you in a similar vein… Only I don't know the songs you seem to fancy well enough to sing them on my own. So, well, this will have to do." He brought up the hand holding his phone and thumbed the touch screen. Seconds later, a song emerged from the tinny speaker.

The first few lines were too soft to hear so Sherlock raised the volume on his mobile's media player.

"… _Take a chance on me. If you need me, let me know, gonna be around. If you've got no place to go, if you're feeling down, if you're all alone when the pretty birds have flown. Honey I'm still free. Take a chance on me. Gonna do my very best and it ain't no lie. If you put me to the test, if you let me try."_

Sherlock had been staring at his shoes as the song started, afraid to look at the man he now knew he loved with all his heart, as he laid that heart out for him to see. He glanced up and saw that the other man had tears in his eyes and the ghost of a smile playing about his lips.

As the song continued to play, Greg swiped an impatient hand at his eyes. "Sherlock, are you saying…?"

Sherlock stood and moved to kneel next to the older man. He raised the hand not holding his mobile and cupped Greg's face. He leaned into the younger man's touch and Sherlock used his thumb to brush away the few tears that had escaped down Greg's face.

"Greg, I've been a blind fool for far too long. I know I don't deserve you, that you are a far better man than I could ever hope to be. But —"

Greg leaned forward and silenced Sherlock with a lingering kiss.

The older man pulled away long enough to whisper, "Sherlock, you are, and always will be, one of the greatest men I've ever known. I'd be lucky to have you. Now shut up and kiss me."

Sherlock let his mobile drop to the carpeted floor as he brought both hands up to cradle Greg's face and fervently met the other man's lips with his own.

The song continued to play, muffled by the carpet, as the two men met in a series of passionate, loving embraces.

"_Take a chance, take a chance, take a chance on me. Honey I'm still free, take a chance on me."_


End file.
